Unbroken
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Rumple has a war to start, and he can't go through it without her for he knows something about Belle that only one other person in Storybrooke knows: she's a warrior. In fact, she's the general who will lead the charge. So as his first act of magic in twenty-nine years, he gives his general a pair of combat boots.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N.** This picks up where "Land without Magic" left off.

* * *

**Unbroken**

Chapter 1: "Regina's Coming and Hell's Coming with Her"

* * *

_Because magic is power_.

His ears are burning. It's as if someone is holding a cigarette lighter to the lobes; they're burning to the point of pain. And then his head is flooded with voices, coming from every direction, in every language, pleading, shouting, sobbing, muttering, musing voices, too many to distinguish one from another, a hundred thousand appeals from a hundred thousand souls who don't even know he exists, who are calling out in the hope of being heard by someone who can help. After twenty-nine years of radio silence he can no longer remember how to filter the voices: there are just too many of them, anyway. It was never like this in the old world.

Beneath his protective arm, Belle shudders and brings him back to sanity. He focuses on a thought; the thought becomes a spell, and his hands tingle as magic returns to them. With the spell he gains control over the voices. Hardening his heart, he shuts them all out, even the children's. In all his plans, details upon details, this is one consequence he had missed: he had had no idea that in a land that had never known magic, thousands of souls would yet cry out for it. He wonders if, when his urgent work is done, he will try to help any of those souls, or will he run back home to the Enchanted Forest.

He can't guess. He only knows he will be a far different person then, if indeed he is a person at all.

The thick purple haze rises and fades into the atmosphere. He can see Belle now, stunned and confused. She raises her eyes to him for an explanation. It's not fair to throw so much at her at once, but with a sympathetic squeeze he asks her indulgence—and her trust. Perhaps the kindest thing he could do right now would be to send her back to the old world, but kindness has seldom resided in his bag of tricks. He has a war to start, and he can't go through it without her—Storybrooke can't go through it without her, and so he's justified in keeping her here. For he knows something about Belle that only one other person in Storybrooke knows: she's a warrior. In fact, she's the general who will lead the charge.

So as his first act of magic in twenty-nine years, he gives his general a pair of combat boots.

Her eyebrows shoot up as she examines the boots that have replaced her hospital slippers. The softest, most supple leather, they cradle her feet perfectly—but they are still combat boots. And then he gives her camouflage fatigues, minus, for the moment, the pith helmet.

A giggle of amazement escapes her, but all she says is, "The sleeves are too long."

He wrinkles his nose in apology as he makes the adjustment. "I'm a little rusty."

She watches him expectantly, but there is no time for answers just yet; he must get her to safety. So he raises his hand, calling forth the magic, and he transports them to the last place Regina would expect to find him, all things considered: the convent.

Ever courteous, he knocks first.

Two nuns—he's never bothered to learn their names; he considers their residency on his property only temporary—open the door, and it's a toss up as to which arrival they find more incredible: the young woman in combat fatigues or the despised landlord. From the blank look on their faces, he realizes they're still reeling from the breaking of the curse and the sudden recollection that they are, in actuality, fairies, not nuns. Or perhaps they are both, just as perhaps Belle is both Belle and the Jane Doe hospital patient, just as he is both Rumplestiltskin and Gold.

And then it occurs to him that he left his cane back at the wishing well. And _then_ it occurs to him that he doesn't require it. He catches his reflection in the window glass: from all appearances, he is Gold, although a younger, taller Gold.

Or maybe that last part is just in his imagination.

"Please, may we come in?"

The nuns step aside. When their guests have entered, they close the door. One of them finds her voice. "Mr. Gold, what—what's happened out there?"

The other adds, "We saw this huge dust cloud—it just engulfed everything—"

"A purple cloud, but there was no explosion—"

"I think I'm going crazy. It's like I'm possessed—"

"Me too. Like this spirit took over my body, and suddenly I had all these bizarre ideas—"

One of the sisters clasps a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my stars! Mother Superior is out there—in that!"

He reaches out a comforting hand. "She is fine, I assure you, Sister—"

"Nova."

The other nun steps back in shock. "But your name is Astrid."

Nova shakes her head. "No, and you're not Bernadette; you're Andromeda."

"I'll explain everything, soon. Please, sisters—ladies—allow me first to ask for—" he hesitates. These words never came easily to Rumplestiltskin; and to Mr. Gold they are even more foreign.

"Oh, Mr. Gold, surely you're not asking for the rent at a time like this," Andromeda chastises.

He sputters, "No, no, I'm asking for. . . h-help."

The fairies exchange a glance.

A new voice interrupts. "Of course. You are welcome here, Rumplestiltskin, Belle." Hovering overhead in all her old world finery is the Blue Fairy. She waves her wand and appears before them as Mother Superior.

Her generosity leaves him speechless.

"There will be time for understanding later," she says to the nuns, then to Rumple she adds, "And time for apologizes and forgiveness. But Regina is on the move, and so we must know now, Rumplestiltskin: where do you stand?"

"I've brought magic here so that we will have a fighting chance against Regina."

Mother Superior studies him a moment. "And if we defeat Regina, will you take her place?"

"The magic I've brought is the magic of true love."

The three fairy/nuns stand in shock. Mother Superior whispers, "It's impossible."

"You said that of the curse."

Mother Superior turns to Belle for confirmation, and Belle raises her chin as she grasps Rumple's arm in a gesture of solidarity. "Rumplestiltskin doesn't lie."

Mother Superior runs a nervous hand across her forehead. "No, but he deceives. Yet, if you're telling the truth. . . .Nothing evil can come from that magic."

"And nothing can defeat it."

Astrid repeats the refrain often heard in the old land: "True love is the most powerful magic of all."

But Mother Superior isn't quite ready to believe. "If we defeat Regina—"

"We will," Rumple says simply. "And then I'm going in search of my son."

"And that's all?"

"I want only my family." He glances meaningfully at Belle, and she answers softly, "That's what I want too."

"And the magic?"

"When the time comes, I'll place it with its rightful owner." He places his hand over Belle's. "Magic is a lie. I've come to realize that only love holds true power."

"A pretty speech." Mother Superior draws in a brave breath. "If indeed it's the magic of love you've unleashed, then it won't allow you to misuse it. I don't know that we can trust you." She turns to Belle. "But we can trust you. And it will take all of us to defeat Regina. She's gone back to the old world. It's said that her powers are very weak and limited—for now. If you have unleashed the power of true love, she must have loved and been loved just enough that a shadow of that magic came to her and allowed her to pass to the old world. But she's shopping around for a deal to acquire Dark magic, and when she has it, she will recruit troops. With the promise of complete reign over this shiny new world, they will readily follow her."

"Then it's time for a town meeting." Rumplestiltskin summons his magic, then remembers his manners. "Mother Superior, will you do the honors?"

* * *

In pairs or singly, they filter into the town hall, each of them bearing, literally, an engraved invitation. They've scarcely had time to collect their wits, let alone seek out family and friends from the old world, but the magic carried in the invitations compels them to come. Chattering, shouting greetings across the hall to each other, they take seats in the audience. Notably absent are Sidney Glass, Dr. Whale, Jefferson and, of course, Regina.

At the front of the room waits an unfamiliar figure, a young woman in army fatigues; beside her stand Mother Superior and the nuns Astrid and Bernadette—but somehow Storybrooke's townsfolk recognize the nuns as the fairies the Reul Ghorm, Nova and Andromeda. They don't know how they know this, and this makes everyone highly uncomfortable. The mood takes a turn for the worse when three additional figures enter the auditorium from the city council chambers: the dastardly Gold, whom they know also as the powerful imp Rumplestiltskin, and Bart the bartender and Clark the pharmacist, also known as the dwarves Bashful and Sneezy. And now everyone knows who Mr. Gold's "eyes and ears in Storybrooke" have been all these years.

Alarmed, some of the citizens stand, preparing to exit.

And then from the city council chambers emerge four additional figures, and the mood takes a quieter turn: David Nolan, Mary Margaret Blanchard, Henry Mills and Emma Swan. The royal family.

The princess/sheriff, standing before them in her ponytail and Graham's jacket, calls for silence. "Look, we've just been through some really crazy crap. Things are so screwy, who can tell which end is up any more? Believe me, I get that. Of all people, I get that."

Heads nod in sympathy with the princess.

"I wish we had time for explanations—" she looks over her shoulder at the troop standing behind her, and shoots a hard glare at Gold. "And apologies, 'cause some people owe the rest of us, big time. But bottom line is, Regina's coming, she's got magic again, and hell's coming with her. We're gonna have to trust each other." She glares hard at the entire audience. "_All_ of us. Live together or die alone."

Murmurs of protest roll across the audience, like a swelling wave that will any minute flood the room, but Emma sets two fingers in her mouth and whistles, and the protests die. King James picks up the presentation. "With the breaking of the curse, the boundaries between the old world and this one are crumbling. It's now possible to cross them, which means we can go home—but it also means Regina can too, and she has. She's crossed over to round up every evil creature she can find, to bring them here and finish us off. We've got the fight of our lives ahead of us, but we're going to make it through. We have something Regina doesn't." He smiles at Queen Snow and picks up her hand. "We're in this for love."

"I know this is hard; we haven't even had time to reunite with our families," Snow says. "But we have to take the children to a safe place immediately. I'm sorry, but I have to ask that you let your children leave."

On this cue, Jefferson, bearing the hat he has retrieved from Regina's tomb, emerges from the shadows. From the audience, a cry of "papa" arises and a child comes running at him, throwing herself into his open arms. He sweeps her up, kisses her, but he has a most urgent job to do, so he sets her down again, the pain etched in his face. "We have to get the children away right now. I'll take them to a safe haven. When the war is over, I'll bring them back to you, safe and sound."

With a quick hug for his grandparents and a kiss for his mom, Henry comes to Paige's side and takes her hand. Arguments break out in the audience; some parents refuse to be separated from their children. Jefferson assures them that they will be welcome to make the journey too. "And anyone else who can't stay to fight."

One by one, the parents release their children to the hatter's care. A sobbing Ashley separates herself from Sean: she must take the baby to safety, but he will fight. A few other parents and older folks join the exodus. The group is large—over fifty souls—but Jefferson's magic is powerful, having lay dormant for so long, and as goodbyes are shouted, he takes them all through the vortex of the hat.

The crowd falls silent as the hat stops spinning.

Granny breaks the gloom, rising to her feet. "Well? Let's get crackin'. Anybody got a spare crossbow?"

"As it happens. . . ." Rumplestiltskin makes a pushing gesture with his glowing hands, the front doors fly open and a wind whirls into the room. "You won't be fighting weaponless." The wind carries objects—people have to duck their heads to avoid getting struck—dusty old objects that the citizens recognize from the pawn shop—and as the objects fly through the room and, like homing pigeons, locate their owners and float gently into laps, exclamations of recognition break the silence. "My crossbow!" "My beer stein!" "My trumpet!"

And the leaders are not forgotten: the mobile of glass unicorns presents itself to Emma, a sword takes its rightful place in James' hand, a bow and quiver of arrows offer themselves to Snow.

And a chipped cup snuggles itself into Belle's hand.

"These objects carry magic," Rumple explains. "The magic isn't strong, but it will be enough to take you home to the old world, if you wish."

"Yeah, but is it enough to kill witches?" Granny demands.

"It's enough."

"You had this stuff, all this time," Sean addresses Rumple. "You could've wakened us up, given these things back to us years ago; we could've gone home then. Why didn't you?"

Rumple's face grows dark. "Choose: you can cast aspersions or you can cast spells."

Marco rises to address the crowd. "This man is evil. We cannot trust him."

"You're right, Papa."

All heads turn at the familiar voice. From the sidelines appears August in his leather jacket.

Emma's mouth drops open: August is alive—and human. She glances at Rumple questioningly, but the imp shakes his head slightly and points to Mother Superior: her magic, not his, has restored August. And now it's August's turn to run, calling, "Papa!" For Marco recognizes his son and shouts for joy.

"You're right," August addresses the crowd as he clutches his father, "but we're all to blame. If I'd done what I was supposed to, we wouldn't have to be planning a war now. All of us caused this, and all of us have to end it."

"There'll be plenty of time later for blame," Granny growls. "Right now we've got some evil queen booty to kick. So what do we do, Your Majesty?" She turns to James.

James raises his sword and a battle cry sweeps across the room. "We fight!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Unbroken**

Chapter 2: Boot Camp

* * *

Rumple adores Granny.

She's one kick-ass old gal, afraid of nothing, willing to try anything. And most importantly, her bravery and enthusiasm are contagious.

But then again, none of these people know any better. They've never been in a war.

He has doubts about some of them. Belle's first act as general was to create divisions—supplies, medical, communications, infantry, air force, sharpshooters, scouts—and with Hopper's help (Archie, Clark and Doc are the medical division) she's assigned positions to each of the 250 souls remaining in Storybrooke to fight.

Belle and Hopper have chosen wisely, always with an eye toward the greater good, which has sometimes caused disgruntlement among people who imagine themselves warriors but find they've been assigned to work in supply, and vice-versa: people who don't want to fight but have the skills for it. These people have required a stern talking-to from King James (or, when James has been indisposed, a cold glare from Emma usually suffices). So the best people for the job have been assigned.

But Rumplestiltskin knows cowardice when he sees it. He can sense it radiating off some of these people: it's lukewarm, and it smells like dead fish in stagnant water.

He can smell it on himself.

Not this time. _Not this time._ He's older and stronger now; he can see the big picture, and he knows they can't win without him. And winning is survival. He cares too much about some of these people to turn tail when they need him.

He despises caring.

Right now it's a dinner break—others have taken over the cooking at Granny's B & B, because Granny and Ruby are warriors now, Granny a sharpshooter and Ruby a scout. They're dining _al fresco_, Granny at the head of the table, holding forth with tales of the Ogre Wars. The younger combatants drink up the tales as a wine that fires their blood. They need this. They have raw skills, but they haven't the heart of warriors; Granny gives it to them.

With the return of his magic, some of Rumple's foresight has returned. He's never been able to see the futures of people he loves, but he can see flashes for some of Storybrooke's citizens. Single images—not complete visions, as he used to see—come to him unbidden, but the images are too disorganized to permit interpretation. It's as though someone has turned a scrapbook of unlabeled photographs upside down and shaken it, and the photos have fallen onto the ground. In one of those photographs he has seen Emma, standing sweaty and bloody, a sword in her hand and Graham's jacket on her back. At her feet in a heap of black crinoline is Regina.

He shares this vision with the warriors. Funny how fast the most hated man in town can become a fan favorite.

The Conan the Librarian t-shirt he's wearing probably helps too. That was Belle's idea: he couldn't exactly run a boot camp in his Hugo Boss three-piece suit. "Oh come on, Belle, how can the Dark One inspire fear and terror in this?" He'd protested, holding the t-shirt against his chest. "Exactly," she smirked. Because she was Belle, he shut up and put on the damned t-shirt.

The meal over, boot camp resumes. In the north 40—which used to be a soybean field—James has his warriors standing at attention, their swords held tight against their chests. James and his troops are dressed in dark brown, the color of fresh earth. James barks and the warriors make a sharp ninety- degree turn. He barks again and they start forward. Rumple can't help but feel warmth spreading in his heart for the boy.

Rumple despises warmth.

In the south 10—which used to be a park—Emma stands behind her sharpshooters. She is showing them how to place their feet, to guarantee balance, and how to position their bodies in relation to the target. Her squad is the smallest, only fifteen individuals; while they remember swords and bows from the old days, most Storybrookers never adapted to modern weapons. Emma's troops are dressed in blood red.

In the east 5—which used to be the schoolyard—a row of bull's eye targets has been set up and warriors stand before them, bow in hand, quiver on shoulder. Snow marches up and down, inspecting their posture, inspecting their weapons, inspecting their faces for signs of weakened confidence or fear. Snow and her troops are dressed in hunter green.

At the river's edge, Rumple convenes his class. Among them is Ruby, his prize pupil: having learned how to control her shape-shifting, her confidence has soared and she is now experimenting with potions.

His troops dress in black, the color of mystery. Like Emma's, his squad is small: most people just don't have the memory capacity to make good mages. But unlike the other troops, the mages-in-training are a motley crew: two of them in wheelchairs, one who is blind, many older folks whose arms and eyes are not strong enough for weapons, but whose wisdom makes them sharp assessors of situations. The elderly have had the time to study people, and many have developed an ability to read an enemy's soul.

Rumple should know. He's the oldest of them all. Though, the way the ladies now look at him, in his motorcycle boots, Levi's and form-fitting t-shirts, one would never guess that. In fact, when he'd made his first appearance in his new threads—his eyes shooting daggers at anyone who dared to snigger at the Conan the Librarian t-shirt—he'd been greeted by a wolf whistle from Ruby.

Waltzing around like that—and with nary a stiff joint or back ache to trouble him—he has to admit Emma is right: Mr. Gold is now "a major babe."

Ah, the wisdom of Belle.

He teaches them first how to extract the magic from their Fairytale Land possessions, the ones he kept in his pawnshop all those years. It's a simple process: the possessions recognize their owners and surrender the magic willingly.

He stands, not before his troops, not behind them, but shoulder to shoulder with them. He isn't teaching them how to position their bodies, because none of that matters, really; it's just a personal preference whether a mage brings forth the magic by snapping his fingers or waving his hand or simply, elegantly, pointing a finger. Their job is entirely mental. . .

And emotional. Those are the hardest lessons: how to trust oneself, how to keep clear-headed in a battle, how to harden the heart to make a kill.

But, above all, how to put on enough of a show that killing becomes unnecessary. And that was a very difficult lesson for Rumple to learn as well, in his early days. The Dark One has all the powers he's acclaimed for, yes, but if one were to document the number of times he's actually used them, the list would be rather short, considering his two centuries of existence. In actuality, he's done far fewer tricks than the public thinks.

That's the key: perception is everything.

And so, waving away his annoyance at this necessary evil, he reveals his secret. Each of them must find their own style, he advises; he will help them draw it out. Some mages—the Dark One before him being one—prefers to come across as devils. Others, like the fairies, prefer to appear all sweetness and light (he has trouble keeping sarcasm out of his voice when he says that).

His own personal taste has always been—he stops to draw in a deep breath. He's never said this aloud, not even to Bae or Belle.

His own performance persona has always been the madman.

Rumplestiltskin is the Jack Nicholson of magic.

Their faces fall. They don't say it, but they're thinking, so you're not really crazy after all? How . . . disappointing.

And then he has to remind them who still has the power around here, so he flicks his fingers and lightning bolts shoot from them, striking a tree, bringing one of its branches crashing down. He folds his arms, his fists under his biceps so that his muscles push out, seeming bigger than they are, and he waits. A good showman always gives the audience time enough to wonder—but not enough time to figure out the trick.

Mr. Alvarez, Fairytale Land shoemaker and currently a resident of the Shady Brook Assisted-Living Center, raises his hand in question. "Uh, Mr. Gold?"

"Yes, Mr. Alvarez?"

"Can you teach me how to do that?"

* * *

The King calls for his counselors to join him in the war room—the library, chosen by Belle for its large worktables and collections of maps, so she said; but Rumple suspects that during breaks in the intense planning, she wanders over to the stacks and browses. He caught her yesterday with a paperback of _Tarzan of the Apes_ in her back pocket (to which she replied, with faux indignity, "What are you doing looking at my backside?").

Ruby hands round tankards of mead as the war council arrives. How she's managed to find mead in this modern world, Rumple has no idea, but he's pleased; he has a particular fondness for the honeyed drink. On the sly he conjures a plate of Oreo cookies to go with the mead.

The Queen—that is, the _rightful _Queen, Snow—stands as the rest seat themselves around the circular table. Without preliminaries she reports, "I sent birds into the Enchanted Forest yesterday to seek news. They came back this morning." The blood drains from her face and her voice becomes a whisper, as though just to speak the next words will cause catastrophe. "It's said Regina went directly to the Source of All Dark Magic and in return for restoration of her magic, she sold her soul."

Everyone falls silent. Finally James states what everyone is thinking: "If she's sold her soul, this fight can only be to the death."

Snow's knees shake and it seems she will collapse, but James' hand steadies her. She continues, "Last night, to demonstrate her powers, she destroyed Atlantis. Sent an entire island and three thousand people to the bottom of the ocean. After which, Maleficent joined forces with Regina. Whether by choice or coercion, no one knows." She has to wave down the voices of protest. "I thought she was dead too, but my birds saw her in Regina's castle, in human form."

"But I killed her. She turned to ash," Emma argues. "I pumped her full of lead and then I threw David's sword at her and she turned to a pile of ash."

Eyes turn to Rumple for explanation. He shrugs. "Perhaps you saw what she wanted you to see."

Snow swallows hard. "There's more. Regina found Jefferson."

"The children?" Ruby cries out.

Snow shakes her head. "They're safe, thank the gods; Jefferson had the presence of mind to disperse them. They're staying with families in various realms. But Regina kidnapped Grace and forced Jefferson to take her into Oz, where she worked a deal with the Wicked Witch of the West. Regina's troops now number ten thousand: gargoyles, flying monkeys, gnomes, ogres, witches and warlocks, a few rogue elves. And Jefferson."

"The same number must come back through the hat as went in," Rumple mumbles. He doesn't have to spell it out for them: without Jefferson, Storybrooke's children can't return.

"We have to strike first, then," James surmises. "We go to them, catch them off-guard."

"With Jefferson, Regina can easily jump realms. There's no catching her," the Blue Fairy points out.

"The first problem is to rescue Grace; then Jefferson can be freed. Our children are safe only so long as he's safe," Belle says, and Rumple feels a flash of pride at her words _our children_. "So, how do you track down a realm jumper?"

Rumple quips, but his quip rings true: "With another realm jumper."

"Do we have one among us?" James wonders.

"Aye." The imp glances at the fairy. "Do you remember telling me a realm jumper couldn't retrieve Bae?"

She nods, looking down at the table; she remembers every detail of that conversation and she's ashamed.

"I didn't believe you. You were right, by the way, but it took twenty years of my life before I quit trying."

* * *

Belle is biting her nails. She doesn't realize she has that habit, and she doesn't notice when Rumple pushes her hand away from her teeth. She simply switches to the other hand and he gives up.

Jefferson's hat, up until now locked securely in the bank vault and guarded by dwarves, has been brought to the war room and set on the round table. The counselors stare at it. Right now it seems an ordinary, old-fashioned top hat; add Gold's walking cane to it and it's an ensemble for Fred Astair. But they've seen its power and they are appropriately impressed.

Or . . was it _Jefferson's_ power that they saw?

That's why Belle is biting her nails. She seizes the tail of her beloved's Conan t-shirt, apparently pulling him aside for a private conference, but he knows she's also pulling him away from the hat. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispers, "how long has it been since you last used this type of magic?"

He clicks his tongue. "Now, now, dear one, if you want to find out how old I am, you needn't beat around the bush; just come out and ask."

She won't allow him to joke her out of her concern. "How long?"

He sobers. "A hundred and fifty years, give or take. But remember, Belle, I'm the most powerful mage in the world. Besides, on the ladder of magic skills, realm jumping ranks pretty low." He touches her face fondly. "It's for the children, love."

"I'm going with you."

"You're needed here. No one has your talent in planning battles. Your father has the experience, but not your cleverness." He's tempted to add: _and certainly not your command of the troops_. For Moe, whether thought of as Duke Maurice or Moe French, carries little weight in either world. James and Snow have the troops' respect and admiration, but Belle and Emma have their hearts.

"I won't go alone, however," he assures her. "I'll take Leroy with me."

"But Leroy despises you."

"But he cares for the children." He returns to the table and nods at the King, who calls for Grumpy. The dwarf arrives on the double, and he needs no convincing; it's enough that Snow asks him to undertake this mission. Rumple enchants the dwarf's pickaxe in preparation.

Then it's time for quick farewells. Rumple sets aside his ill feelings toward James—he's long felt bitter about the boy's betrayal of him, after all he did to bring James and Snow together—and shakes the King's hand. As he does so, he enchants James' wedding ring—subtly, so Belle doesn't notice and get worried—but just in case something happens to Rumple, James will now have a little bit of protective magic. As Snow kisses his cheek, he does the same for her wedding ring.

He turns to Moe. He has never apologized to Moe, nor, in the days since the breaking of the curse, have they spoken of the past. Now that he knows Regina lied about Belle's death, Rumple owes it to Moe—and, more importantly, to Belle—to find out the truth about Moe's involvement in Belle's imprisonment. Rumple is confused: he sees Belle working side by side with her father, studying maps and weather forecasts and troop strength reports; courtesy and cooperation flow between them, but late in the evenings, when it's time to rest, Belle doesn't go to her father's house; she comes to Gold's. She says nothing about Moe, or her capture and imprisonment by Regina.

Nor does she speak of that last day in the Dark Castle. When the war is over, they will talk it all out. For now, it must suffice that they have already forgiven each other, and nothing that will be said in that needful conversation can break their love, for their first words to each other, when the curse broke, had sealed the bond beyond breaking: "Rumplestiltskin, I love you." And without hesitation, he had, at long last, accepted her love with a simple "yes" and then offered her his heart: "And I love you too."

Someday, when the war is over and there is time for sitting around a peacemaking fire with a tankard of mead, with Belle beside him, and perhaps children playing at his feet, Rumple will invite Moe to tell his side of the story. For now, the best he can do is to offer a handshake.

Moe shakes his hand but, unlike the others, doesn't wish him luck.

Emma shifts the mood. She pushes her way past Moe—her BS detector must've detected something, because she has no particular fondness for Moe either. She grabs Rumple in a rough hug; showing affection isn't her style, but she'll make an exception under the circumstances. "Don't let the bastards get you, Gold." For good measure, as she's hugging him he enchants her necklace.

Now there's only Belle to say goodbye to. He holds her but stands apart from her so he can see her in full, memorizing the picture. Just in case. She's still Belle: confident, brave, playful, but she's also Jane Doe: slower to trust, wiser in her choices. Where she once had optimism, she now has hope. The fate of three hundred people rests on her shoulders, and she carries that weight willingly. Her innocence stolen, she can no longer be fooled: she sees the world as it is.

Yet she has chosen him.

He draws her in and the others turn away modestly, giving them some privacy. "Rumplestiltskin," she says softly, and he prepares for the words of unending love that will take him into battle.

"Yes, my darling Belle?"

"Are you really going—dressed like that?"

He glances down at his Conan shirt and laughs. With a wave of his hand he's now wearing an old favorite, his alligator jacket and leather trousers.

She comes closer. "Rumplestiltskin."

"Yes, my love?"

"I love you."

He pulls her in for a kiss. It's only their second kiss, and the first of his own initiative, and it could be the last, so he puts everything he has into it. When he releases her, she is breathless and dazed.

She blinks, straightens her fatigue jacket, seizes him and kisses him back. When she releases him, he stumbles a little. Maybe he gave up his cane too soon.

From her jacket pocket she withdraws a compass, which she presses into his hand. "So you can find your way home." A proper soldier, she wears no jewelry, so he enchants her combat boots. Of course, he has sense enough not to tell her that.

Then he sets the hat on the floor beside the circulation desk. He spins the hat and he and Grumpy disappear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Unbroken**

Chapter 3: "The Grumpy and Rumpie Show"

* * *

**A/N. Oh, gee, this was supposed to be a poignant story of the Final Battle, but it's taken a quirky turn. Kind reader, I beg your indulgence (and if you're an Oz fan, your forgiveness for my crimes against that canon; the Parody Fairy cast a spell on me). I promise poignancy in future chapters, as Rumple and Belle are reunited—or not.**

* * *

The strong bright colors, the same reds and greens and yellows and blues that one would find in a child's paint box, nearly blind them when the vortex stops spinning and dumps them unceremoniously in a poppy field. "Don't breathe!" Rumple warns, clutching his nose. He conjures a surgical mask for himself and another for Grumpy.

"What?" Grumpy's ears are still ringing from the trip and he's clutching his stomach; he's going to be sick, right into his surgical mask. Rumple clicks his tongue in annoyance and conjures a small pink tablet, which he hands to Grumpy. "Here, take this."

"What is it?" Grumpy holds it to his nose as if to sniff it, but the surgical mask gets in the way. "Some kind of magical potion?"

Rumple grunts. "Yeah."

Grumpy reads the writing on the pill: "Pepto Bismol."

"Keep the mask on!" Rumple gestures to the field of poppies spread out before them, a lovely inviting blanket which Grumpy eyes longingly. "These flowers will put you to sleep permanently. Come on." Using his compass, he leads the way due north through the field. Grumpy keeps looking down at those pretty poppies and his knees buckle as he walks, but Rumple grabs his collar and jerks him up.

Grumpy makes conversation to stay awake. "You've been here before."

Rumple nods. "Once, a hundred and sixty years ago. I doubt it's changed much." He doesn't mention the purpose of his previous visit: it had failed miserably anyway. He'd spent almost a year searching Oz without finding Bae.

"I've never been anywhere but Storybrooke and Fairytale Land."

Rumple starts to say, you haven't missed much, but that's not true. Instead he points due north. "This way to the Yellow Brick Road."

"And where'll that take us?"

"To the wizard, of course."

"You know this guy?"

"I met him." They'd understood each other, the imp and the all-too-human magician. Each saw the trickster in the other.

"He's got powers you don't, I suppose?" Grumpy stumbles along. He finds that when he moves too slowly, the poppies twine themselves around his stubby legs and pull, urging him down, so he lifts his feet as he walks.

Those same poppies shrivel and bend in the opposite direction as Rumple's feet pass through them.

"No, he has no powers at all."

"But—he knows where Regina is?"

"Not likely."

"Why are we wasting our time with him, then?"

Rumple pauses and glances back at his traveling companion, with the air of one whose patience is tested beyond reasonable limits. "Because you can't find Glinda unless you're going to see the wizard." He marches on.

* * *

It's nearly a mile until they leave the poppy field and come to a wooden sign pointing them to the Yellow Brick Road. Relieved, Grumpy removes his mask. He spies a group of little people in the distance, rolling along the road with their carts. He suggests they try to catch up to them for information.

"Don't bother," Rumple says. "They're only Munchkins."

The sun overhead beats down and Grumpy removes his cap, but then his bald spot becomes sunburnt so he replaces the cap. The sun is round and orange like a lollypop; it reminds him he's hungry, now that the Pepto Bismol has settled his stomach. To keep his spirits up he begins to whistle.

Rumple shushes him. "You'll attract flying monkeys."

Grumpy shrugs. "Sorry, I had to. You know: 'Follow, follow, follow, follow—'" he lets his song trail off when Rumple scowls at him. "Humph. You've never seen the movie, I take it."

"No."

They walk on. Grumpy keeps trying. Rumple should give him credit for that, but he's too single-minded at the moment to allow himself to be jollied, even by a balding dwarf with an upset stomach.

"Me, I go to the movies a lot. All kinds, but I especially like _Transformers_, _Terminator_, that kind of thing. You know, manly man stuff. But I don't mind a chick flick once in a while, especially, you know, Sandra Bullock."

Rumple keeps walking.

"TV, too. I like a lot of TV. You know, that's one way Storybrooke's got Fairytale Land beat." Grumpy pauses, hoping that the change in subject will inspire Rumple to talk, but it doesn't. "Yeah. I've been thinking about it, and I don't think I want to go back. I like the modern conveniences too much, you know? Air conditioning, cars, hot showers. TV. You got digital cable, Rumple-uh, Mr. Gold?"

"'Rumple' will do." The imp glances back at him with those weird eyes. "For the moment, considering the circumstances."

"Yeah." Grumpy shrugs. "We are, like, army buddies or something, marching off to war, right?" Rumplestiltskin doesn't reply, so the dwarf continues his musings, half to himself. "Yeah. On a mission. Like Han and Luke. Starsky and Hutch. Butch and Sundance. Jake and Elwood. You. . .don't watch much TV, Rumple?"

"No." Technically, that's true. Gold prefers DVDs. Westerns, mostly. But he's not going to admit that.

Grumpy starts to hum under his breath. He adds words to the bouncy tune: "'It's the Grumpy and Rumpie Show, the Grumpy and Rumpie Show/There's so much we don't know/So to the wizard we go.'"

Rumplestiltskin stops in his tracks and glares. Emphasizing each word, he warns, "Don't ever call me 'Rumpie.'"

The dwarf gulps and shifts his pickaxe from hand to hand nervously. Rumple starts marching again, adding under his breath, "'Butch,' perhaps, but never 'Rumpie.'"

At least, that's what Grumpy thinks he said. But with Rumplestiltskin one can never be sure.

* * *

Rumple stops short. He turns and looks, so Grumpy turns and looks: they're being followed by a bubble, a bubblegum pink bubble, and it's expanding. "Hello, Glinda," Rumple says.

The bubble hovers a few inches above the bricks, and then it dissolves and a lovely pink lady wearing a billowy ball gown and a crown appears. She's too pretty; her voice is too sweet. Rumple's teeth ache.

She comes close and peers at Grumpy. "You're much too tall to be a Munchkin." Then she peers at Rumple; he knows she's a bit nearsighted but too vain to wear glasses, so he introduces himself. "It's Rumplestiltskin. Do you remember me? This is my. . ." Grumpy grins hopefully, but his grin fades when Rumplestiltskin doesn't say "buddy." Instead the imp says, "My compatriot, Grumpy."

The lovely lady's interest is piqued and she examines the dwarf. "My! Grumpy, is it? We must do something about that."

"No, that's my name," Grumpy explains. And lest she get any ideas about changing it, he adds, "I like it."

"We came to see you," Rumple says, and then remembers his manners and bows deeply. "We seek your assistance, if you can spare us a moment of your time, fair lady."

She is flattered. She has never seen a rock star, of course, but the heart of every female, if she was ever an innocent little girl (some witches, like Regina, never were) throbs a little faster for that type. Rumple has the quality and he's not above taking advantage of it, pulling out the stops on his charm when it suits him. And now that his skin is no longer scaly and his teeth have been capped, he has a distinct edge. Even Emma said so. So he puts on the major babe charm for Glinda, kissing her hand and praising her beauty and youthfulness and downright Glinda goodness, then he makes a quick motion with his hand and Grumpy, understanding the gesture, bows and kisses her hand too.

Rumple pulls out one more charm. "It's for our children," he says.

She's putty in his hands now. She links her arm through his and walks him to a stone bench along the road, where she invites him to sit and tell his tale. When he finishes, she is both tearful and righteously indignant. Rumple finishes, "And so we've come to you, good lady, to ask your help in finding Grace, so that we can rescue her and free her father, and make it possible to bring all our children home."

"Why certainly!" Glinda puffs. "I shall do all you ask and more." She waves her wand and produces a blue ball on a pedestal, which she gives to Rumple.

"What's that, a snow globe?" Grumpy inspects it. "Where are the little figurines and the snowflakes and stuff?"

Glinda giggles. "Have you never seen a crystal ball, you silly man?" She taps the ball with her wand and it fills with a haze. When the haze clears they can see a frightened Grace, pleading with someone to let her go. Glinda taps the ball again and now they can see a castle guarded by flying monkeys. "The Wicked Witch's castle. In the dungeon."

"Naturally. How do we get to the castle?"

She points to the sky. "Simply follow the monkeys, of course."

"Of course. But Glinda, the Witch of the West is said to be quite powerful. How can she be defeated?"

"You must defeat the monkeys first. That's no small feat; they're man-size, you know. Or at least, dwarf-size. Possess the Golden Cap and you'll control the monkeys." She taps the ball and an image of a window in a tall tower appears. "This is the Wicked Witch's bedroom, in the north tower. She keeps the Golden Cap in a nightstand beside her bed. If you can get past the monkeys guarding the castle, you can enter the tower and take the cap."

"But the witch? How do we defeat her?"

The sweetness and light suddenly drop from the pink lady and she growls in a Brookyn accent, "Leave her to me. I'm gonna tear that witch a new one."

* * *

The motley three arrive in double time, thanks to Glinda's wand, and stare up at the castle walls. Grumpy scratches his bald spot. "So. . . is one of you going to, I don't know, fly us up there or something?"

Rumple summons his magic but when he attempts to elevate, another force blocks him. "The witch has this place sealed tight."

"Never mind," Glinda advises, bubbly and sweet again. "They will take us in." She points her wand at the sky, which has filled with winged, sharp-toothed, sad-faced creatures. "She has them in thrall, you know."

Rumple can relate; he knows something about being in thrall.

Chattering angrily, the monkeys dive at the trio. Their nasty claws dig into Grumpy's shoulders and they yank him into the sky; another pair snatches up Glinda. The remaining monkeys hover over Rumple's head, then turn tail to fly away.

"Hey! Wait!" Rumple shouts at them. "You can't just leave me here!" He leaps into the air, grasping one by the tail; it squeals and twists and bites him, but he doesn't let go. "Hey! Come back here! Hey! Your mother was a chimpanzee!"

That does it: a cluster of monkeys surrounds Rumple and sweeps him into the sky, nipping at him and beating him with their wings.

The trio is carried over the moat, past the gatehouse, and into the castle, where they are dropped onto the floor of the Great Hall—a stone floor, not wooden, Rumple notes, rubbing his injured tailbone. Rumple gives Grumpy a shove. "Go, go, go!" He points to a winding stair leading into the north tower. "I'll keep the monkeys busy."

As Grumpy runs, swinging his pickaxe at any monkeys in his path, Rumple resumes his taunts and tail-grabbing. "Nayh, nayh, nayh, your mother wears combat boots!" Then he thinks of Belle and quickly changes his taunt. "Your brother's in a zoo in Toledo!"

A pointy-chinned gal in black flies in on a broomstick. Swatting at monkeys, Rumple channels Emma. "Really? A broomstick? Like your profession needs any more stereotyping. You do have a lovely complexion, though. Who does your facials?"

He's never met her, but she recognizes him. "Rumplestiltskin! I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dwarf too."

"Oh, it's on, sister," Rumple accepts the challenge.

"Hey, what am I, chopped liver?" Glinda demands. She waves her wand, but it merely sparks and sputters under the castle's power block. She takes a step backward. "It's all yours, Rumple." She runs, yelling over her shoulder, "Water!"

"What?"

"Throw water on her!"

"Where do I get water?"

But Glinda is gone. The monkeys haven't let up their attack, clawing and biting and beating him. They're annoying little buggers but they aren't doing much damage; his alligator-skin jacket protects his torso, and his fists keep them away from his face. The witch is satisfied that Rumple is sufficiently occupied, so she mounts her broom and pursues Glinda.

Grumpy returns with the Golden Cap. Seeing the garment in his hands, the monkeys back off. Grumpy hands the cap to Rumple. "Do you know how to work it?"

"It's a cap, so. . ." Rumple sets the thing on his head. It's too small and he feels like Colossus wearing a dwarf's birthday party hat as he puts it on, but he can feel magic vibrating in it.

The monkeys go quiet. One of them says, "What would you have us do, master?"

"You," Rumple addresses the leader, "take me to the dungeon and unlock it. The rest of you, after the Wicked Witch. And take a bucket of water with you."

In a trice Grace is freed. As the Monkey King escorts them back to the Great Room, Rumple consults the crystal ball. "Regina's appropriated the Emerald Palace. She's in the throne room, palavering with her generals. Jefferson's locked in the dungeon."

Grumpy sighs. "Don't you evil sorcerer types ever do anything but dungeons?"

Rumple settles comfortably onto the Wicked Witch's throne. He addresses the Monkey King. "Bring me this man. Turn off the security system before you go, will you?" The Monkey King bows and takes off, and with a yawn Rumple uses his magic to add a sound card to the crystal ball. He props his feet up on the witch's dining table and eavesdrops on Regina's meeting. She's good, he has to admit; quite the schemer, provided she has a lieutenant who pays attention to the details, and Mal serves that purpose. He wonders what kind of deal Regina made with her.

With the elimination of the Wicked Witch and her monkey troops, Regina's forces are down to nine thousand. The odds have improved.

He conjures a hot toddy for himself and Grumpy, only to find the best his magic can do is a Shirley Temple—the Emerald City's a dry county, apparently.

Rumple hates Oz.

* * *

The lollypop sun is setting in the west when Rumple, Grace, Jefferson, and Grumpy return to the spot where they've left the hat. The Monkey King and his entourage have escorted them, along the way sharing the tale of their enthrallment. Rumple should take the monkeys back for enlistment in the Blue Fairy's air force, but, well, that's probably more trouble than it's worth. He settles for one last command: harass Regina. Pick off the weaker of her troops, if possible. Then he gives the Monkey King the Golden Cap.

The Monkey King is touched. He offers information that his troops have overheard from the witch's meetings with Regina: the Evil Queen's forces will gather in two days' time in the remains of Fairytale Land. They will march through a passageway in Zunigal Mountain, on the western edge of Leopold's kingdom—the same passageway that the curse carved out when it swept the residents of Fairytale Land into the new world. The passageway leads through Puzzle Mountain—ten miles south of Storybrooke. The Monkey King draws a map.

Grumpy whistles a tune. "Hey ho, hey ho, it's off to Zunigal we go."

Jefferson shakes their hands, wishing them luck. Until Storybrooke is safe, the children cannot return, so he must remain behind. But he's not worried: he has Grace.

Grumpy and Rumple exchange a smile. "Let's go blow up a mountain," Rumple suggests.

They leap.

* * *

"Remember where we parked the hat," Rumple cautions. They stand at the northern foot of Zunigal Mountain, peering up at its sharp peak, its slick face. It's one formidable mountain, all right.

Grumpy likes mountains. Rumple likes blowing things up. It's a match made in heaven.

With telescopes and the Monkey King's map, Grumpy locates the passageway. It's not hard to spot: the curse wasn't exactly subtle as it tore through here. Grumpy nudges Rumple. "Got it."

But Rumple's telescope is trained backward. He's surveying the remnants of Leopold's kingdom. Already nature has moved in where people once lived: birds, deer, and rodents have taken up residence in the buildings, creeping vines have crept up walls, wind and rain have eroded roads. It's been just twenty-nine years; soon all evidence of human life will be buried.

Or has it been twenty-nine years? He's not sure if time passes differently in Storybrooke than in Fairytale Land, especially considering he sleepwalked his way through the last twenty-eight years.

Probably, the rest of Fairytale Land looks much the same, including the flatlands where Rumple grew up. . .where Bae should have grown up. His grip cracks the telescope and he curses under his breath: "Damn it." What he means, though, is _damn me_.

Grumpy nudges him again. "So. . . conjure me up some dynamite and I'll get to work."

But dynamite is a bit more complicated than telescopes, and the curse lingers here. Besides, it's been a trying day and his magic's still rusty. His mind catches the thought, then builds a spell around it; he waves a hand and a wooden box appears at Grumpy's feet. Rumple feels suddenly tired. His hands won't tingle any more; no matter how firmly he insists, he can't bring any more magic just now.

Grumpy opens the box. "Uh, Rumple? Nice joke, but how about that dynamite, huh?" Grumpy upends the box, dumping its contents on the ground: Fourth-of-July sparklers, cherry bombs, black snakes, cracker snaps.

"Sorry." Rumple tries again but nothing comes, not so much as a pop gun. He leans back against a boulder.

"Okay." Grumpy assesses the situation. It's been a trying day for him too. He closes his telescope, settles against the boulder and closes his eyes.

* * *

"Gods!"

Rumple awakens to the dwarf's shout. Grumpy is standing, his telescope fixed to his eye. He shakes Rumple's shoulder.

Rumple glances at the sky as he scrambles for his telescope. It's an hour past sunrise. They've slept more than twelve hours. Rumple trains his telescope on the passageway.

The passageway is clogged with troops. Thousands of them, every sentient species known to man or fairy.

"They weren't due until tomorrow!" Grumpy exclaims.

"Regina's timing never was the best." Or it could be Mal's cleverness. Rumple squeezes his eyes tight shut and concentrates; his hands heat up and tingle. His magic has recharged. It's too late for dynamite, so he studies Zunigal, seeking another method. He notices that the cliff overhanging the passageway is fractured, possibly damaged when the curse swept through. He grins. "We're cuttin' them off at the pass."

He conjures a six-shooter and takes aim at a loose pile of rocks on the cliff. He pumps those rocks full of lead, but the rocks hang tough; the cliff remains intact. He tosses the six-shooter aside with an "aw, hell" and conjures a bazooka. One blast and the rocks roll, the cliff crumbles, and a landslide fills the passageway.

Grumpy hoots. "Yeehaw!"

Rumple drops the bazooka. "You're celebrating too soon. Half of them got through."

Grumpy gulps. "And the other half are headed this way."

"Where'd we park that damn hat?"

* * *

They stand over the hat, staring at it forlornly.

A chunk of the hat is missing. Teeth marks tell the tale: a deer has eaten it.

Crossing his fingers, Rumple spins the hat. It wobbles weakly. A vortex forms: it's green, as it should be, but more chartreuse than the grass-green it should be. He tests it by tossing in a rock. "Well," he surmises. "I think it's enough for one of us to go through."

In the distance a dust cloud is growing. Beneath that cloud are about four thousand angry would-have-been looters, sackers, burners, and shooters.

"You have to go," Grumpy decides. "I'll find a hidey-hole in the Zunigal."

"It's my fault," Rumple admits. It's not just the damaged hat he's referring to. "Go back, warn James."

Grumpy shakes his head. "Okay, so it's your fault, but our people need you more than they need me. Besides, I don't trust that thing. I know mountains, you know magic, and that's all there is to that." He shoulders his pickaxe. "Go back and fight like hell for the both of us. And look out for Nova, will ya?" Before Rumple can protest, Grumpy scrambles up a goat trail leading into the Zunigal. He shouts back, "Hey! Maybe you can make a new hat when you get back to Storybrooke, huh? Good luck, Rumpie!"

He's gone before Rumple can remind him how realm jumping hats work—or about the despised nickname.

The dust cloud is growing and rumbling. With a "damn me" Rumple leaps into the vortex.


	4. Chapter 4

**Unbroken**

**Chapter 4: Rumplestiltskin in Hell**

* * *

He arrives with a thud on the roof of Clark's Pharmacy. He checks the hat: it's far too damaged to be salvaged. He kicks it, sending it flying into the air, then lest someone should find it and try to use it and end up in, say, Toledo instead of Timbuktu, he shapes his thumb and forefinger into a six-shooter and takes aim. The hat disappears. He snaps his fingers and transports himself to the peak of Puzzle Mountain to assess the invaders' progress.

The single good thing about being invaded by a four-thousand troop army is that the enemy can't move quickly, especially when it's marching through unfamiliar mountains, and even more especially when it's comprised of greedy, quarrelsome creatures. Regina and Mal, riding in Regina's black carriage at the head of the line, seem oblivious to the in-fighting going on behind them.

Be careful what you wish for, Rumple thinks; Regina had better sleep with one eye open from now on.

Rumple perches on the edge of a precipice and studies the situation. He has one chance, he concludes; after that, his presence will be obvious, and he'll have no option but to run. A direct attack would be pointless: Regina will have a shield surrounding her army. Nor is barter an option: if she's sold her soul, nothing he could offer would tempt her.

As he watches, a squabble breaks out between an ogre and a troll over ownership of a deer carcass. Regina, in her rush, has probably forgotten to provide provisions for her troops. The troll-ogre dispute becomes bloody; the troll loses, and then a gargoyle fights for ownership of the troll's carcass.

Rumple fine-tunes his hearing. Yes, stomachs are growling. All right then, the trickster will provide. Rumple stands, holds his hands out, palms up; he lifts his hands to the sky. Through the rocks and crevices of the mountain passage he raises carcass after rotting carcass, every kind of bloody delicacy he can think of, and he seasons those carcasses with escherichia coli.

The army stops on its collective heel. It's lunchtime. Rumple wrinkles his nose in disgust at the sound of crunching bones. In about another thirty minutes, that sound will be replaced by the sound of retching. Just for spite, he conjures one of those little pink pills and tosses it up and down in his hand. "Just another of the advantages to living in the modern world, fellas," he chirps. "Too bad I don't have enough for everyone." He chuckles and makes the pill disappear.

Now Storybrooke has a little more time.

He needs a messenger. He searches the trees and finds a robin napping in the sun, its head tucked under a wing. Birding isn't his style, so he's not sure how to address the creature. He tries "hello, robin."

The robin ignores him.

"In the name of Snow White, I ask for your—" there's that dreaded word again; he stumbles on the _h_—"help."

The robin raises its head.

"Will you take a message to Snow?" He searches his pockets but of course comes up empty of anything that might interest a bird. "I, uh, I'll owe you a favor."

"I need no payment, if it's for Snow," the robin answers.

"Fine." A twinge of envy hits Rumple: just once, he wishes people—or birds—would do something for _him_, just out of the goodness of their hearts. But, he supposes, that would require him to reciprocate. "Please tell her Regina's troops are coming through Puzzle Mountain but they have met with a delay. We have perhaps a day to finalize preparations. Tell her the message comes from Rumplestiltskin."

"I know who you are, imp." The robin flies away.

From his seat on the precipice, he watches Regina's army gorge themselves on tainted meat. A lone gargoyle ignores the repast—a vegetarian, perhaps—and lumbers away from the army in search of shade. Rumple takes advantage of this loner's anti-social tendencies to test Regina's shield: he conjures a lightning bolt and aims it squarely between the gargoyle's eyes. He giggles softly, proud of his achievement: not bad for a two-hundred-eighty-nine-year old. In fact, he doesn't feel a day over two hundred. His eyesight is just as keen as—

The gargoyle is still breathing.

It's on its side, immobile, but he can feel life radiating from it, just as strong as before.

Errr, well, maybe Rumple's age is showing just a little bit.

Puzzled, he tries again, this time dropping a half-ton boulder on the creature. The boulder is twice as big as the gargoyle; the force creates a crater and drives the gargoyle to the bottom. It's in so deep it can't claw its way out, but the damn critter is still breathing.

He tests again, sending a little ball of fire at a crow in a tree behind him. The fire burns a full five minutes and the crow keels over, but it's uncooked and breathing.

He plants his chin in his hand to think this thing over. Finally it occurs to him what's wrong: it's not him, it's the magic that's at fault. It's not Dark magic he's tossing around now; it's True Love's magic, and True Love is all about—well, love and kindness, live long and prosper and all that feel-good junk. The magic won't let its users kill. Why didn't he think of that before? He'll never be able to stomp on another snail again.

Well, hell's bells. That's the price he's been charged, then, for bringing magic back: he can't use it willy-nilly. In fact, it's planting ideas in his head—_nice_ ideas. Irresistible, un-Dark ideas.

Regina, meanwhile, has Dark magic in spades. She can snail stomp to her heart's content—but, oh yeah, she doesn't have a heart any more.

And to some extent, to a slight degree, perhaps Rumple has a share in that blame. He did, after all, create the curse and he did egg on the curser. . . . And he did teach her how to use the magic she stole from her mother. All right, so maybe he was more than a little to blame for this mess. Before guilt can begin its water torture, he decides he'd better see if he can do something about that. With a deep sigh of annoyance, he takes himself off on another quest to see another old acquaintance, the Source of All Dark Magic.

Rumple detests quests.

* * *

He'd forgotten how bad this place stinks. If you rounded up every rotten egg, every pile of dung, and every gym sock and let them ferment for a millennium, it still wouldn't stink as bad this place. And to make matters worse, it's damn hot down here.

A voice behind him laughs and a claw clasps him on the shoulder. "Rump, old chum! Mi amigo! Long time no see."

Rumple takes his time turning around: it's not wise to appear eager in this place. With his smoothest smile, the imp dips his head in greeting. "Mephistopheles, you're looking well." As good manners require, he looks around in admiration at the room into which he's transported. In the center of the room, there's a Lazy Boy parked between a refrigerator and a magazine rack stuffed with vintage issues of _Bikes 'n' Babes_; on the floor is an avocado shag carpet; on the back wall are an Annette Funicello poster and a neon Budweiser sign blinking in red and green; and on the other walls are plasma TVs, each tuned into a different sports channel. "Quite a man cave you have here."

"A guy likes to be comfortable when he's off-duty, you know what I mean? So, good to see you, buddy." They shake hands. "If you like my set-up here, you should see the garage. I'm rebuilding a '66 'Vette, cherry red. Hey, here's a thought: you come to work for me, I'll set you up in your own place, just as sweet. Eh? Whaddya say?"

"A generous offer, but I have plans of my own."

"Yeah, you always did. That's why I want you on my team, buddy." Mephistopheles pops the top on a Silver Bullet and offers it to Rumple; the imp politely waves it away. Mephistopheles shrugs and downs the beer himself in a single gulp, then belches. "I'm probably better off if you don't join me, though, eh? Seems like half the time you're playing for me, and the other half you're playing for Him. I need consistency in my guys, you know?"

"I'm not exactly a team player. Speaking of teams, I hear that you made a deal with Regina recently."

"Yup." Mephistopheles rips open a bag of pork rinds. He tosses them one by one into the air and catches them in his mouth. "Pretty cool, huh?" Rumple isn't sure if the devil is bragging about his rind-catching or his Regina-catching.

"They say you restored her magic in return for her soul."

"Yeah, well, I was hung over that night. You know me: I usually drive a hard bargain, but—" He shrugs again. "Yeah, I got the short end of that deal."

"You're not hung over now, are you?"

Mephistopheles laughs. "Why? You lookin' to screw me over too? Come on, Rump, I thought we was pals."

"Oh, I think you'll like this deal. It's a sporting proposition."

"Oh, yeah?" The devil picks up his universal remote and mutes all six of his televisions. "I'm listenin'."

"You know Regina's formed a rather large army and has brought them across from Fairytale Land into the quiet little community in which I reside."

"Yeah, I've been watchin'. I figure this is gonna be as good as Tyson-Holyfield. But what I can't figure out—now correct me if I'm wrong, Rump, but I hear you were in the market for magic too, but instead of doin' the sensible thing and comin' to me, you manufactured your own. And I hear it's—" Mephistopheles lowers his voice to a whisper as he speaks the wretched phrase—"True Love's magic."

"Yes, well, I suppose I was a bit hung over that day myself. Anyway, it should be quite entertaining in itself, this little war, but I thought you might be interested in a side wager."

"You know me, I'm always up for a bet. Whatcha got?"

"If I win, you restore Regina's soul—to its original state, the one it was in before her mother twisted it, not the condition you acquired it in."

The devil chuckles. "Yeah, don't blame ya for adding that qualification." He whistles. "The shape it's in now, you could drive a pair of Mac trucks through it. So, what do I get when you—excuse me, Rump; don't mean to be presumptuous—_if_ you lose?"

"Mine."

"Hot damn! Now that's a deal a guy could sink his teeth into."

"One more thing: no interference. It has to be a fair fight."

"Oh yeah, sure. You know me, Rump. Honest as the day is long." The devil slaps the imp on the shoulder. "Just bullshittin' ya. But yeah, I'll stay out of it. Hey, I wanna see this fight. But riddle me this, buddy: since when did you care what happens to Regina? I mean, have you gone soft in the head? Nah, look who I'm talkin' to. You got to be gettin' something _good_ out of this. But what?"

"You see right through me, Meph. I'm getting something good." Rumple twists his mouth in disgust. "And I'm touched in the head. Overexposure to True Love's magic, obviously."

Rumple detests True Love.

* * *

He transports himself to the war room. His aim is a little off—he's a bit jet lagged from all this traveling—and he lands on a pile of maps on the circular table. Moe swats at him, then apologizes. "I'm sorry, I thought you were a horsefly."

"Indeed." Rumple jumps down from the table and straightens his alligator jacket as an indication of his indignity. And then he lands right back on the table, because Belle flies at him so hard she knocks him over. "Rumplest—" she can't finish her greeting because her mouth plants itself on his.

Ah, one of the perks of True Love's magic: it encourages lots of true love kisses.

Moe crosses his arms judgmentally. "Well? Where's—" He can't remember Grumpy's name. Clearly, his interest in Grumpy is limited to the fact that the dwarf is absent and Rumplestiltskin can be blamed.

"He stayed behind. There were. . . complications."

"I'll explain it to Nova," Belle offers. "But first, what news? We received your bird-o-gram and we've begun final preparations."

Rumple answers simply, "Grace and Jefferson have been reunited. Jefferson remains in Oz until such time as he can bring the children home."

Her face informs him that she's not satisfied and will demand a full report later, but she has other priorities. "While you were away, we made arrangements for additional troop support." She shoves a stack of maps aside and pulls a laptop forward. Popping its top, she strikes a few keys and brings a browser up.

Rumple's jaw drops.

"Emma taught me," she winks. "This world has a magic all its own."

Moe sets a proud arm across his daughter's shoulders. She moves neither toward him or away. "Took to it like a pig to mud," he says. "That's my girl."

"I believe the expression is 'a duck to water,' Papa," Belle mutters, and then she moves away from him. She directs Rumple's attention to the laptop. "You know about this World Wide Spiderweb thing, I'm sure."

He shrugs noncommittally. With Moe standing there, Rumple's not about to admit the things he's done with that Spiderweb. . . namely, certain borderline-legal transactions in the area of, shall we say, family law.

"If this is what the modern world is all about, I'm all for it," she bubbles. "Anyway, see this?" She hits a pair of keys and the website for the Maine Army National Guard appears. "The 3/172nd Infantry, Mountain Battalion, Brewer, Maine. 'Ascend to victory.' That's what we need, right? Mountain soldiers. So I sent for them."

Rumple gulps. "My love, tell me you didn't pick up the phone and. . ."

"Oh no," she laughs. "I've been running armies long enough to know a direct request would take forever—all that red tape, you know. So we took a short cut, Emma and the Blue Fairy and I. Through the magic of this Spiderweb and the Blue Fairy's magic, we. . . made a few changes in the 172nd's training schedule. They will be arriving at five a.m. tomorrow to begin battle exercises."

"They're going to be in for quite a surprise when they capture their first POW." Rumple drapes an arm about her shoulders. "Beloved, there's something I have to tell you about this magic I brought back. . . ."


	5. Chapter 5

**Unbroken**

Chapter 5: "Perception is Everything"

* * *

"So we can't kill them? Not any of them?"

Rumple takes a step backward, surprised at the disappointment in Snow's voice. "Uh, no."

"But they can kill us?" James adds.

"It's just like Henry said." Emma drums her fingers on the war table. "Good can't win because good has to fight fair."

"Evil may win the battle, but it can't win the war," the Blue Fairy insists. "Evil consumes itself."

"That's nice, but what good'll it do us if we're wiped out," Emma mutters.

Rumple interrupts, "Your mourning comes too soon. We can't kill but we can remove. An old acquaintance of mine has promised accommodations for any of Regina's army that we can send to him."

"So, change in strategy then," Belle announces. "Our sharpshooters, swordsmen and archers go in first; we fight to wound; and then the mages come in and send the wounded packing."

"To where?" James asks.

Rumple exchanges a glance with Belle, then answers reluctantly, "To Hell."

Moe slams his hand on the table. "I should've known." He points at the imp. "Friends, we've had a devil amongst us all this time. A viper at our bosom—"

Belle growls, "Papa, shut up."

The war council's faces change with this new accusation.

Moe persists, "Throw him out, Your Majesties. Throw him out now, though it may be too late." Moe draws a dagger from the sheath at his hip. "Or allow me to dispose of him."

James' mouth opens slightly. He's considering the demand. . . .

Belle stands, her head high. "If he goes, I go."

And then Snow stands. "So do I."

"Me too," Emma stands.

And then, to the amazement of all, the Blue Fairy stands. "And I."

James closes his mouth, thinks for a moment, then opens it again. "I've always had my doubts about you, Rumplestiltskin. I still do. I think you look out for number one and don't give a damn about the greater good. But it seems like, in this case, your personal interests and the greater good are in synch. The council has spoken. Sit down, Moe. Belle, please proceed. We need to develop that new strategy of yours."

With a furious glance at each council member, Moe hesitates, just in case someone will side with him. When no one does, Moe storms out and doesn't come back; no one goes looking for him. Belle sighs—whether in disappointment or relief, Rumple isn't sure—and she rolls out the topographical map of Puzzle Mountain. "They're here," she points, "indisposed, perhaps through tomorrow." She slaps her hand flat on the map. "We strike at 5 a.m."

* * *

Rumple may have seen too many Westerns in his day, but Belle, during TV Days in the mental ward, has seen too many war pictures. She stands in the back seat of a Jeep Wrangler, a lady McArthur surveying her troops in the darkness. At her left flank, carloads of swordsmen, led by King James in his pickup, await her order; at her right flank, Snow heads up a phalanx of Chevys, Fords, Hondas, Hyundais and Mazdas bearing her archers to war; at center, led by a yellow VW, the sharpshooters in their vehicles gun their engines; overhead, the Blue Fairy and her air force hover. The medics and Marco's supply troops bring up the rear.

Belle's smart phone chirps—her ring tone is "The Caisson Song"—she answers crisply. The caller, Ruby, informs her that the 172nd has arrived at the north end of Puzzle Mountain to begin their, uh, exercises. Chief Mage Rumplestiltskin is there and is casting a spell over each Guardsman; through the rest of the day, they will believe they are firing blanks at troops from the 435th Infantry. Their commander has told them if they win today's war games, she will throw a pizza party for them tonight.

Well, Rumple's seen some of the 435th; one could easily confuse them for trolls and ogres.

Belle texts a terse message to her troops—"Roll Out"—and nods to August, her driver. He starts the engine.

Moments later Belle's troops arrive at the southern foot of Puzzle Mountain and they divide. Emma's Red Squad splits, half taking the east side of the pass, the others taking the west; they climb midway up the mountain and text Belle when they're in position. A quarter of the way up the mountain, Snow's Green Squad does likewise. At ground level, James' Brown Squad takes cover and awaits a signal.

And the mages are scattered about. Like carrion birds, they will swoop in to snatch up the wounded and bear them away to Hell.

Rumple tells himself it's downright Miltonic: magicians delivering monsters to Hell. Two decades from now, Belle and the rest will gather at the VFW and over a game of bridge will share their war stories. Foremost in their memories will be the fact that they won without killing. "'This story shall the good man teach his son,'" Rumple recites Shakespeare under his breath. "'We few, we happy few—'" But in truth, he doesn't feel happy at all, because blood will be shed.

And some of it might be his—or Belle's.

The smell of rotting fish in stagnant water fills his nostrils.

The sun rises. Below, the monsters stir and snap at each other. They are suffering the aftereffects of yesterday's feast, and this makes them irritable, incautious.

Rumple's ears burn. He hears Belle's command, "Forward," as she barks into her cell phone. She is miles away, but he can hear her clearly, and he doesn't need a phone to do it. In their parting words last night, he vowed he would always hear her call; she, in return, vowed she would never serve him escargot, nor question where he got his Valentine's Day roses.

Gunfire erupts.

The war has begun.

He resists the urge to rush to Belle's side. August, her aide-de-camp, has been trained in all aspects of combat and will protect her every step. Upon learning this, Rumple enchanted August's combat boots too. "You can transport yourselves anywhere," he instructed them last night. "Just click your heels three times."

"You spent a little too much time in Oz, darling," Belle teased.

Rumple transports himself to the precipice from which Mr. Alvarez, safe in his armored wheelchair, is bombing the Cyclopes with balloons filled with cat dander—Cyclopes being notoriously allergic to house pets. As the sneezing giants alternately slash the air with their swords and dab at their watering eye, a team of swordsmen charges. With a giggle that sounds oddly familiar, Alvarez casts a growth spell: the swordsmen now average ten feet four inches in height. Considering that three of these swordsmen are Dopey, Sleepy and Happy, it's quite a sight. Rumple offers his congratulations to Alvarez (overlooking the giggle that the new mage has copied from his tutor) and flies on.

His next stop is a cavern from which Ms. Lockwood, Storybrooke's postmistress, is conducting warfare upon the ogres. Ms. Lockwood has a particular aversion to ogres: back in Fairytale Land, she worked for one. She is probably the only person in Storybrooke who can say her boss was an ogre and mean it. Her experience has proven helpful to the Storybrooke army: she taught a workshop in Ogre Anatomy, with special emphasis on the knees—their size makes older ogres vulnerable to bursitis. Ms. Lockwood's current contribution is a squad of squirrels that she has enchanted and armed with baseball bats. The squirrels dash about, smacking knees and giggling. When the ogres bend down to try to grab the squirrels, Snow's archers send arrows flying into exposed fannies (the softest part of an ogre's anatomy). The arrows' tips have been dipped in a powerful sedative, provided by Dr. Clark; soon the mountain passageway is clogged with the bodies of snoring ogres, causing a tripping hazard for the gargoyles, who have never been known for their grace anyway.

Rumple speaks a word of praise to Ms. Lockwood, who flashes a thumbs-up at him before sending in a fresh squad of squirrels.

Rumple next checks in on Ruby—but he doesn't stay to chat; she can't talk right now because her mouth is full.

As he passes by the swordsmen, Rumple sees that a gnome has snuck up behind James and about to take a bite. Gnomes are the rat terriers of the monster world: they're small and don't do a whole lot of damage, but when they get a bite on their prey they don't let go. In the old world, Regina liked to keep gnomes as pets—though all her pets had notoriously short life spans. Occupied with the giant he is slaying—slowly; it's like felling a redwood with a pocket knife—James doesn't hear the gnome, but the magic contained in the King's wedding ring does. The magic blares out a high-pitched whistle that only gnomes and imps can hear. Rumple conjures himself a set of noise-canceling headphones and watches with satisfaction as James' attacker falls over backwards, his little hands clawing at his bleeding ears, his little legs pumping uselessly in the air.

Emma is kicking and punching in the grip of a Cyclops. The magic in her necklace kicks into action and creates a giant swan, which pecks the Cyclops' eye. Emma, freed, retrieves her Uzi and fires. The Cyclops falls, landing on a pack of gnomes.

Alas, Mrs. Kim has fallen asleep at her post. Before nodding off, she had been pestering Cerberus, giving him a bad case of fleas. Rumple awakens her gently and she gets back to work. She transforms herself into an earwig—he's going to have to ask her someday about her penchant for pests—and plants herself in Mal's ear—Mal having assumed her favorite position. Mrs. Kim begins a war of words: she whispers salient facts into the dragon's ear, beginning with a detailed explanation of just how it was that Mal ended up in a library basement. It's a slow go; Mal has been a witch a long time and her will is strong, but as the battle roars on through the morning, Mal begins to turn. By mid-morning, the dragon is giving Ruby a run for her money in the gargoyle- and troll-chewing department.

Coming along behind is Rumple's clean-up crew: Mr. Horton and Mr. MacRae. Both men were undertakers in Fairytale Land; in Storybrooke, where, until recently, undertaking was an unheard-of occupation, they are sanitation engineers. As ogres, trolls, gargoyles, Cyclopes, witches and gnomes fall in injury, Horton and MacRae pop in, and with a whisk of their hands, their magic sends the monsters to Hell.

His protégés have done him proud. Rumple can now stop worrying about them and partake in the fun himself. He joins the 172nd on the north side of the mountain. The Guardsmen are happily firing away with their tanks and LAWs and sundry weaponry, absolutely convinced that the creatures they are attacking are Infantrymen from New Hampshire, and that at five o'clock they'll all pack up and go out for beer and pizza. Since their power doesn't issue from True Love's magic, the 172nd can kill—and does, though in their clouded vision they think the deaths are all pretend.

Regina's casualties are piling up—over 500 are gone by 10 a.m.—and when the monsters try to escape back to Fairytale Land, the 172nd prevents them. Rumple casts a protective spell about the Guardsmen; by the end of the day, the worst they will suffer will be sunburn and sore feet.

He sits on the turret of a tank and watches the war, throwing his magic around—and thinking about how pointless it all is. Belle's reports keep coming in with higher and higher numbers: by 10:30 a.m. twenty-three Storybrookers are dead. At 11:50 Rumple's ears crackle again and he hears Belle's voice, uncertain now, reporting that Granny has been killed.

Rumple stands. It must end here. He has to call Regina out.

* * *

She is sitting in her coach, sipping tea and watching the show with a scowl. She too has figured out there's no way to win, and her rage overflows. He appears, perched on the seat across from her.

She rolls her eyes. "True Love's magic. Why did you even bother? Can't you see how useless it is?"

"Aye."

"I suppose you're here to deal." She sips her tea and inspects her fingernails. "I'll save you the trouble: the answer is no."

"It's not a deal I came for. It's you. You and me, mano a mano, on Main Street, high noon."

She snorts. When he doesn't giggle she blinks. "You're serious."

"Aye."

"And why should I bother? I'm winning with not even so much as a broken fingernail. Why should I dirty my hands on you?"

He leans forward and sneers in her face. "Because it's what you've been wanting all these years. My blood on your hands. My power draining into yours. My heart—"

She finishes his sentence. "Crushed beneath my fingers. Yeeees." Her grip tightens on her teacup and it bursts, sending tea all over her black dress. She doesn't notice.

"For once and for all, your reputation established: the most powerful and feared being in all the world."

"In all the worlds," she corrects. "Yeeesss."

"So much more satisfying than a run-of-the-mill war victory." He adds confidentially, "By the way, I made a deal with the devil. If you win, I'm going to Hell. If I win, you are."

From a mile away, over the battle raging outside the carriage, they can hear the clock above the library chime twelve times.

Before weapons can be sheathed, magic sweeps the combatants up from the mountain and transports them to Main Street.

The Guardsmen of the 172nd are left scratching their heads. Their leaders palaver and decide the 435th has given up and gone home. Victory is declared and the Guardsmen go out for pizza.

* * *

12:03. Regina's tardy as usual.

Rumple stands on the corner in front of the library.

Down the block the battle continues: it takes several minutes before the fighters realize they've been transported. They keep fighting anyway, taking cover in doorways and behind cars.

When she arrives she's laughing. She believes she's already won. And how could it not be so, when his magic won't kill, when his magic renders him weak and lame against her? She will kill him slowly, so that all of Storybrooke can hear him scream. . . can watch him fall to his knees and beg for mercy. And the terror that the scene will strike in Snow's soft little heart will give Regina everlasting pleasure.

Rumple steps down from the corner and into the middle of the street. He allows Regina the first four attacks. He sidesteps each. "Pretty spry for an old guy, wouldn't you say, dearie?" He's studying her style: it's all brawn. Muscle magic—though he must admit, she has plenty of it. He discovers her "tells," for example, the way she breaks eye contact with him just before she attacks, the way she shifts her weight onto her right foot when she's going to lead with her left hand.

But then Belle, having just floored a warlock with a stun gun—he can see he's going to have a hard time getting her out of electronics stores—appears at the library's entrance, and he can't help but glance at her. In the two seconds it takes for him to determine that she is uninjured but afraid, Regina sends a flaming flail flying at him. It strikes him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him; the flames singe his hair and the spikes pierce his alligator jacket, drawing blood. He stumbles, has to bend over to recapture his breath, and in that time Regina sends a hatchet at him. The blade slices his ear and blood spurts.

Belle cries out and steps into the street, but he waves her away. "Get out of here!" It's too late: Regina spies her and now she has a second target to torment. She sends a pair of steel bands flying at Belle, but before the bands can imprison her, Emma tackles Belle and the bands smack harmlessly against the library door. As Emma drags Belle away, Rumple conjures a flock of ravens and sends them at Regina, pecking and clawing. For just a moment Regina seems to forget her magic; she throws her hands up to protect her face. Rumple takes advantage of her distraction to conjure a bucket of honey above her head. He dumps it on her, then conjures a beehive above her head. He cracks it open.

Regina screams, more in frustration than in pain, and waves her hands, aggravating the bees. Blindly, through the curtain of syrupy hair hanging before her eyes, she tosses knives at him. There are too many for him to dodge: he conjures a brick wall in front of his body, and the knives clatter against it. He makes the wall vanish so he can attack again. Following up on his theme, he sends a hungry bear at her. His magic won't permit the bear to kill Regina, but the animal knocks her down and licks her.

Regina remembers her powers: she waves her hand and sends the bear flying against the library. It shakes its head and disappears. She clambers to her feet, sending a few fire balls at him, then draws her hand down across her body: her magic removes the bees and the honey—and gives her a new hairdo, to boot.

He rolls a bowling ball at her—a growing bowling ball that's as big as she is when it reaches her, and it sprouts a pair of hands that grasp her by the ankles and yank, knocking her down again. She makes the bowling ball disappear and drops a pile of bricks onto him. Flattened, he struggles to get out from under. It hurts to breathe: he thinks he's broken a rib. To buy some time, he conjures a mechanical monkey and fastens it to Regina's back; the monkey slams a pair of cymbals against Regina's ears.

Regina destroys the monkey. She drags herself to her feet and dumps another pile of bricks on Rumple. What she lacks in imagination, she makes up for in sheer strength. Rumple summons a shield between himself and the bricks, but he's still woozy and he misjudges; the shield buckles and he feels intense pain as a brick strikes his head and then everything goes black.

When his mind reawakens, he is floating in mid-air, steel bands enveloping him. Regina puffs and pats her hair back in place, then approaches.

From the sidelines he hears gasps, cries of warning, threats of retaliation from his fellow fighters, but any moves they make are quickly squelched by Regina and her soldiers.

Regina walks up to him. Her cheeks are flushed, her pupils dilated: she's high on magic and drunk on violence. She runs a finger along his face, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Her breath is hot against his skin as she leans into him and hisses, "Fee, fie, foe, fum, I smell the blood of a coward."

Belle comes running, shouting threats, brandishing a sword she's swiped from James, but Regina sends her flying against the library. Snow helps her to her feet and holds onto her so she won't attack again.

Regina flicks a finger and the set of bands that are locked across his chest opens. "'Merrily the feast I'll make/Today I'll brew, tomorrow bake,'" she recites. She runs her hands down his chest, laughing; she pauses and digs her fingers into his jacket and rips it open. "'Merrily I'll dance and sing/For next day will a stranger bring.'" She thrusts her hand into his chest and he screams with the pain. "'Little does my lady dream/ Rumplestiltskin is my name.'" Her hand twists and turns and prods; he is on fire with pain. "Now who has the power around here, hmm?"

He gasps, "We shall see."

Belle is screaming and crying. He focuses on her. Her voice keeps him sane.

Regina extracts her hand. She's no longer laughing. She stares at her hand and scowls. She thrusts both hands into his chest and digs, but again comes up empty. "Where is it?" she growls. "Where's your heart?"

Suddenly the pain stops completely; he feels nothing. As Regina stares at her hands, he summons just enough breath to yell for Emma. The sheriff comes running; Regina turns away, pondering. "Emma, take my hand," he gasps. He can't feel her touch him. His vision shrinks; he can no longer hear Belle. He tries to call her name but he can't breathe. His head falls forward and the last thing he sees is concrete.

* * *

He draws in a breath.

His eyes focus: he's staring at the street. He draws in another breath. He feels no pain, not even from his broken rib or his torn chest. He shakes his head woefully: boy, is his body a mess. Archie's going to have a time of it, stitching him back together.

Regina has released the steel bands. His body has fallen to the street. She rolls him over, peers into his face. "I win," she smirks. "Welcome to Hell, you twisted little imp." She spins, her black skirts swirling about her, and she waves a dismissive hand. "Remove him."

An ogre unceremoniously tosses the imp's body over his shoulder. "Where?" It's the best the ogre can manage: his breed aren't the best communicators.

Regina laughs. "Take him to the city landfill."

Belle runs forward, slashing at the ogre with her stolen sword. The beast falls over, dropping Rumplestiltskin's body to the street. Belle drops beside Rumple, takes his head into her lap, wipes away the blood from his face, her tears falling on his broken body. She calls his name over and over.

Regina swishes away. And then the battle really begins. As Belle continues to shield Rumple's body, the armies resume their war in earnest. James retrieves his sword and leads the charge with a guttural battle cry. Snow lets her arrows fly. The Blue Fairy and her squad dive bomb the witches and gargoyles with renewed energy.

Rumple kneels beside Belle, his hand on her shoulder. He whispers, "I'm here, Belle." He stares at his hand, his smooth skin, his long, tapered fingers, his manicured nails. . . his wrists peeking out from Graham's jacket. . .

"I'm here, Belle," he assures her, but it's not his voice.

And then he remembers his grand plan. He stops talking and instead puts his words into thoughts: _Emma, can you hear me?_

He leaps to his feet. No, Emma leaps to her feet and he leaps with her. "What the hell?" Emma demands.

Belle looks up at her in amazement.

_Move my body, please. I'm going to want it again later._

"What?"

_Just do it before I get trampled._

Stunned, Emma nevertheless makes the suggestion, and she and Belle carry Rumplestiltskin into the library, where they lay him on a couch in the Periodicals room. "Where are you?" Emma asks.

"What do you mean?" Belle echoes.

_I'm here—and there. See if you can get Archie to patch me up before I get an infection, will you? And tell Belle I'm going to be all right. See? I'm breathing._

Emma calls for Archie. The psychiatrist comes with a medical bag; he kneels at the body and seizes its wrist. In amazement he looks up at the women. "I've got a pulse." He gets on his phone and summons Clark; the pharmacist arrives in an ambulance and the two men place the body on a stretcher. They are gentle; Rumple is grateful for that. He decides he'll lower Archie's rent when this is all over.

Belle climbs into the ambulance and it drives off, to the convent, which has been converted into a makeshift hospital, the hospital itself having been fire bombed.

_Emma?_

"Gold?" The sheriff stands in the library, her hands on her hips, watching the ambulance go.

_Yes. Now don't panic._

"Where are you?"

_There's no time to explain. Regina's getting away. You're going to have to trust me_.

"Just tell me where the hell you are!"

_Emma, run! You've got to catch Regina. _

The sheriff bursts from the library onto the street, but she's still demanding an explanation. He can see clearly—more clearly than he has in years—her eyesight's perfect. And he feels great, full of energy and strength. And tall.

_The motorcycle. Take it._

August's motorcycle is parked in front of the hardware store. Emma throws a leg over the saddle, but protests, "The keys."

_You don't need them. Snap your fingers._

She does. Her hands are shaking, and it's not just nerves: magic is raging through her hands, insisting on release. The motorcycle's engine roars. "I don't know how to drive this thing."

_I do. Hang on._

Well, to be honest, he knows only in principle; he's never actually ridden a motorcycle before. But he understands how cars work, and it's pretty much the same thing, right? He thinks each action, one at a time, and Emma's body responds to his thoughts. After a false start they're wheeling down the street, chasing Regina.

And then it occurs to him he could've just told her how to use the magic to transport herself.

"Too late now," she shouts over the engine. "Where are you and how come I can hear you but I can't see you?"

He causes her to glance in the side mirror. "I don't under—" she starts, and then she catches on. "Why are my eyes brown?"

_Because my eyes are brown_.

"What are you—ohhh, crap."

_Yeah. It's only temporary, I assure you. My body's useless right now, and I can't afford to be useless; we've got a war to win. _

"What I just did with the engine—"

_I transferred my magic to you. And now I'm here to teach you how to use it._

"You've got to know this is the creepiest thing I've ever experienced."

_Creepier than slaying a dragon in a library?_

"Uh, yeah. Hands down."

_I promise I won't invade your memories while I'm here. Your privacy is safe._

"Eeewww!"

Now they are upon Regina. The two of them in one voice shout, "Regina!" as Emma squeals the tires and swings the motorcycle around to cut Regina off. Emma throws herself off the bike, letting it fall. She pushes up the sleeves of Graham's jacket, ready for whatever action Rumple directs. Rumple conjures a sword in her hand.

This move draws Regina's attention to the jacket and she smiles. The witch waves her hands and suddenly, standing between the two women, appears Graham.

Emma lowers her sword.

_It's a lie. That's not Graham. See?_

Emma blinks and now she sees a troll in Graham's clothing. It's leering at her. She slices it open with her sword. The magic won't allow her to kill it, but Rumple executes the spell to send it to Hell.

And now it's just Regina and Emma and Rumple, mano a mano a mano.

Regina is puzzled. "You have magic now. How did—" she answers her own question. "That damn imp, screwing me over from the grave."

They've pussyfooted around long enough. _Let her have it_. Emma swings the sword like a baseball bat—she lacks her father's finesse but makes up for it in enthusiasm—and sends the blade through Regina's gut.

Regina sees the blade coming and blocks it with magic, but her magic breaks down against Emma's. A thick fluid the color of used motor oil gushes from Regina's body as she collapses to the concrete.

_Holy sh— _Rumple isn't sure if that's him or Emma talking. Emma's raw power is immense; he's never experienced anything like it. With training, she will easily become the most powerful mage of all time.

The sky blackens immediately. Thunder rips through the town and the earth shakes and a whirlwind tears through Main Street. The wind encompasses the mayor's house, rips it from its foundation and carries it off.

Emma turns to look back and finds that every gargoyle, every troll, every Cyclops, every witch, and every thing that Regina had brought with her has disappeared.

The sky clears just as suddenly as it had darkened. She hears birds tweeting, a breeze fluttering the maple leaves overhead. Slowly, the residents of Storybrooke filter into Main Street.

It's over.

_Emma?_

"Yeah?"

_Will you take me back to my body now?_

"Glad to." She leans down to pick up the motorcycle.

_Emma?_

"Yeah?"

_You can keep the magic._

* * *

He awakes in the convent. He knows it's the convent because he can see a crucifix on the wall across from his bed. And there's no television, no computer.

He wants to sit up, but he's connected to all sorts of medical gadgets, so he settles for turning his head. The room he's in is—boring. Eggshell white walls. No paintings, no photos, no books, no windows.

But Belle's here. She's slumped on the couch, her face buried in her arm, her feet flat on the floor. How she can sleep like that, he can't figure. He wants to chuckle but his ribs hurt. Then he notices she's traded her combat boots for sneakers and her fatigues for jeans and a black turtleneck.

She looks lovely in that turtleneck.

He's thirsty. On the nightstand there's a bottle of water. He calls upon his magic to bring it to him. It doesn't budge. Oh, yeah.

Well, the magic is where it belongs: True Love's magic now resides with its proper owner, she who is the product of that magic. And Rumplestiltskin the imp is gone forever. But then, so is the devious Gold.

His only regret is that while he had it, he didn't use the magic to find Bae.

Mother Superior enters the room. Everything about her is quiet and serene. Right now, he can appreciate that. He's a bit too old for so much commotion. She disconnects him from some of the machinery and helps him to sit up. The bandages around his chest pinch and itch, but he ignores that. She offers him the water and he whispers his thanks.

"You're staying," he whispers, indicating her nun's attire.

"Yes, and so is Sister Bernadette. Nova has gone back, though. Emma created a hat for her." She sits on the edge of his bed. They are both clearly uncomfortable with this unfamiliar closeness, but she's trying to be friendly, so he tries too.

"She's looking for Grumpy."

"Yes. She's taking him a gift: a plasma television."

Rumple smiles. "Sundance will enjoy that."

"Jefferson has returned with the children. He was reluctant, but of course the children couldn't return without him. He seems to mind Storybrooke less, now that he has Grace. And you? Will you stay?"

"At least until I find my son. After that—" he shrugs and glances meaningfully toward Belle.

"Emma told us about the magic."

"It was never meant for me."

"Bernadette and I, too, plan to surrender our magic."

"Mother Superior. . . It's said one should let sleeping dragons lie, but it would help me to know. . . all these years it's been nagging me. . . ."

"Ask your question, Mr. Gold—or do you prefer 'Rumplestiltskin'?"

He ponders for a moment. "Neither, I think." And he gives her Gold's first name.

She smiles a little. "I've always wondered about that. Please, ask your question. It's time for us old war horses to retire to our pastures. Let's bury the past."

"When my son came to you for help, why did you not tell him that True Love's kiss would break my curse?"

The fairy-nun's face changes with this understanding. "I see. All these years, you've thought if Baelfire had only known about the kiss—"

His voice thickens with grief. "None of this would have happened."

She shakes her head slowly. "Regina would have still been Regina, and the war would have had to happen, in one way or another. And as for you, if Baelfire had told you about the kiss, would you have permitted it?"

It's a long time before he can answer. "No."

"And Baelfire was too honest a boy to have tricked you. But I've come to realize that I was wrong to have not told the two of you, before it was too late, so you could decide together. You were not, as I thought then, rotten to the core, nor was I always on the right side."

He lowers his head and allows tears to come. She takes his hand, and when he looks up at her, he sees she is weeping too. "Not even the most powerful of us can change the past," he says at last. "The best we can do is try to make amends." This is his apology; she understands that.

"Amends," she echoes by way of agreement. She stands. "I have another patient I must see."

"Who else was wounded?"

"Regina." Mother Superior sets her hand on the doorknob, then pauses. "It's a strange thing. She awoke from a coma this morning with no memory of the war, or Storybrooke, or—much of anything." She shrugs. "In fact, Regina seems to think she's sixteen years old. She's been so sweet and kind that no one has the heart to tell her otherwise."

Rumple chuckles.

Mother Superior raises her eyebrows. "Ah. Yes, I thought you had something to do with that."

Rumple isn't about to tell a nun who brought about that change in Regina. "Thank you for the water, Mother Superior."

"Something I've been wondering. May I—?"

"Of course. A question for a question; it's a fair deal."

"Regina tried to rip your heart out, but she couldn't find it."

"That's right."

"I know you well enough to be certain you have one, so my question is, where is your heart?"

He tips his hand in his sleeping beauty's direction. "Where is belongs. Where it's always belonged."

* * *

**A/N. Well, it was going to be a big epic drama, but it kept veering off into comedy. I hope you enjoyed it anyway. I based this story on a common theory among fans that the boundaries between Storybrooke and Fairytale Land are crumbling, and that perhaps the reason Rumple was in such a rush to bring magic back is that he knew FTL baddies would be breaking through. Another fan theory postulates that there must be a power that's older, wiser and stronger than the Reul Ghorm, a source of all magic, and I went with that, since the Blue Fairy's judgments, for me, leave something to be desired. I tried to hint at that here, with Mephistopheles' reference to "Him." And I do think that Rumple and Belle will eventually have to have a long talk with apologies on both sides, but I have faith that their love will withstand all storms. It's forever, dearie.**


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